I will show you fear in a handful of dust
by FancifulRivers
Summary: You hate him. That's all there is to it. You're evil and you were born bad, and nothing anyone ever says or does can change that. Or maybe they can.


**Author's Note: I'm finally uploading this from my AO3 (which is the same name by the way). It's one of my favorite Undertale stories I've written, which is why I'm uploading it first aha. (Also, I obviously don't own Undertale and the title is a quote from T.S. Eliot.)**

You hate him.

Frisk loves him. Frisk keeps extra ketchup packets in the fridge for him and tells you off when you try to take over the body's vocal cords to yell at him to fuck off. Frisk hugs him and you can feel the bones of his rib cage through his jacket. It reassures Frisk, but it infuriates you, and all you want to do is jam a knife through them. Make him bleed that fucking ketchup and dissolve into dust. Again.

He doesn't know you're there.

Or maybe he does- you can't read a skeleton's face. His eyes wisp blue sometimes when they look at you, and Frisk has to wrestle you down, has to push you into the soft, yielding ground of whatever internal world passes for your new "home." It's a lot like the monster realm and that's on purpose. It's the only place you've ever known that felt like it could be safe, and of course, you had to go and fuck it all up anyway.

You want to taunt him sometimes. You want to tell him that you know what it feels like to have his dust on your hands, grit under the treads of your shoes. You want to tell him that you've killed Papyrus. You want to whisper in his ear (not that he has one, but he can still hear, can't he? Same difference) that you're a dirty brother-killer and that you're burning in hell, and you'll take Frisk with you.

You want to tell Mom that you know what it feels like to heft a knife and slip it into her back. You want to tell her that you cried, but you laughed, too, and you don't know which scared you (or Frisk) more.

Frisk won't let you do that, either.

You talk to Flowey sometimes. Frisk's brought him up, in a giant flowerpot, and you laugh at him when nobody's looking, because it looks ridiculous. Frisk's painted smiling flowers in rainbow colors around the bottom, and they couldn't look more different than his scowling, pouting face.

You don't want to tell Flowey about killing him because you can't stop remembering Asriel when you do, and that makes you remember the taste of buttercups. The first time you try anyway, you end up taking over the body and throwing up bile for an hour. Mom freaks out and almost takes you to the hospital, but you manage to convince her not to. Freak human tummy bug, you say and besides, you're all better. She doesn't know enough about humans to know you're full of shit. Sans comes home in the middle and just _watches_ you, bony hands shoved in his pockets. There's no soul-blue floating around, but that doesn't make you feel better.

Frisk saves every day. You don't know why. It kind of pisses you off actually. Like Frisk thinks there's something worth saving. Like maybe Frisk doesn't trust you as much as they say they do, because why do they need to save every fucking day otherwise? Sometimes you show Frisk pictures inside of what your life was like before you hiked up Mt. Ebott to die. You've never seen Frisk cry so much. You don't get why. You smile at them, but it's fake, and you kind of hate yourself for it.

You wander downstairs one day, yawning and shoving a hand through your fringe, wondering if you can get Frisk to cut it later. You don't realize you aren't alone for precious seconds.

"hey, kid," Sans says, leaning against the fridge. You want to shove Frisk out to deal with him (or shove a butter knife into him), but they're sleeping. It's just you and him, and Toriel's sun-lit kitchen isn't a judgment hall, but your reflexes insist it is. You skip backwards before you even realize you're doing it, dodging around the corner and pretending maybe he's not there, ketchup packet between two fingers.

"kid?" he asks, startled, and you laugh, because you can't help it, but you regret it as soon as you do, because that comprehension spills over his eye sockets like a flood, and you can see the magic gathering.

"where's frisk?" he demands. Frisk is starting to come awake, but you don't care, bare feet and pajamas or not, you book it out the front door, slamming it shut behind you. You don't care if it wakes Mom up, maybe she can stop Sans from coming after you. After her precious baby Frisk because it's not like she gives a shit about you, she _buried_ you, she _mourned_ you (not that you had any right to her tears).

The sidewalk is cold and the gravel hurts your soles, but you run anyway, breath feeling like it's cutting your lungs. You're crying but you don't realize it until you feel the tears soaking the collar of your pajama shirt. You wish you had your knife. No, you don't, because you don't _trust_ yourself with the damn thing, and really, you want to turn it on yourself anyway. The feel of dust on your fingers is so overrated. You want to feel human blood instead, but that's the problem, isn't it? _You_ don't have any.

You keep running, flinging yourself heedlessly down an embankment when you hear his shouts behind you. It's steeper than you thought and you trip, rolling head first until your foot smashes into a tree stump and you scream. You hate yourself for it as soon as it leaves your mouth, but you can't stop because it _hurts_ , and when you look down, your foot's canted to the left and turning black and blue and purple. Frisk's pajama pants are ripped and there are bloody lines down your shins and you just want to give up.

Sans is there when you look up and you squeak, trying to push yourself to your feet, broken something or not, hands scrabbling in the loam around you for any kind of weapon because you hate him, and you want him dead, and that's all there is to it.

"kid?" he asks. There's still that whiff of magic in the air, still that ethereal hint of blue in one eye socket, but he looks concerned, and you almost give in until you remember he's still worried about _Frisk_. Not you. Never you. He _despises_ you, and the feeling is mutual.

"Frisk's fine, if that's what you mean," you spit out, voice hoarse.

"you're not," he says, and he almost sounds kind. You know it's a trick (bring out the Gaster Blasters!), but your eyes fill up with tears anyway. "it's chara, right?"

"What of it." You scowl at him because everything really, _really_ hurts and if he's going to kill you, you wish that he'd hurry up and get it over with.

"let's get you back to tori's, okay?" he asks, extending one hand. You're pretty sure it's meant to help you up, but you can't stop from propelling yourself backward anyway, biting back a yelp of pain when your fucked up foot fetches up against a rock. Your eyes are wider than they've ever been, and you can hear yourself panting for breath like some kind of sick dog.

"i'm not going to hurt you," he tells you, and you laugh then, bitter and harsh and hurting your throat. _Right,_ you want to tell him. _You never want to hurt me. Right? Even when I sank my knife in dear old Papyrus. Even when I destroyed everything you ever loved and cared about. Get dunked on, right? Mercy is for suckers._

You say nothing, though, just stare at the bones in his hand like they're going to come to life and bite you.

You hate him, because it's so much easier to fan the flames of your own hatred than to admit that you're terrified.

It takes everything in you, but you reach up and take his hand. The bones are cold beneath your fingers, and you don't want to see how badly you're shaking.

Sans lifts you up- gently, maybe even as gently as he would help Frisk. You nearly bite your lip through when you put weight on your foot and before you realize what's going on, he's scooped you up in his arms. It feels kind of nice.

"How'd you know I'm still here?" you question him, because you want to know. You _have_ to know. He looks down at you and shrugs. His eyes are normal white pinpoints.

"you're quite a _character_ ," he grins, and you can hear Frisk groan inside. "i dunno, kid. frisk gets this look in their eyes sometimes- pretty sure it's you."

"And then you want to slam me against the ceiling and finish me off, right?" you finish before you can stop yourself.

"not unless you do something to deserve it, kiddo," Sans says seriously. "and you haven't done a damn thing. have you."

"...No," you admit. "It- I'd rather die."

"i'd rather you didn't do that either," Sans tells you. You don't know whether you believe him or not.

You kind of want to, though.


End file.
